Professor Broad's smile was the kind that had been refined over decades of academic and political maneuvering—warm enough to be inviting, but possessing a sharp edge of absolute confidence. He leaned back in his leather chair, the candlelight catching the silver in his beard.
"The pool of candidates is naturally shallow, Albert," he said, his voice smooth. "Geniuses aren't exactly a renewable resource. But look at where we are now: two exceptional minds have surfaced at once. You and Isabelle. Even Katrina... well, her technical skill is barely within the acceptable threshold, though I must confess her temperament leaves a bit to be desired. She has the fire, but lacks the focus."
Albert adjusted his glasses, his mind already dissecting the offer. "Let's skip the flattery for a moment. What's the catch? Or rather, what does inheriting this surname actually get me?"
"The benefits?" Broad chuckled softly, stroking his beard. "The most obvious one—the one that hooked Isabelle—is access. You gain the key to the accumulated knowledge of the Wildsmith family spanning back several centuries. Every heir we select is a master of their field. Before they pass on, they leave their life's work behind. It's not just a library; it's a living archive of genius."
Albert finally saw the hook. It wasn't about the gold or the prestige; it was about the data. For someone with a skill panel, a library of genius-level insights was essentially a shortcut to godhood. He could absorb what others spent decades mastering in a matter of months.
"And the material things?" Albert prompted.
"Money, of course. A significant stipend. And you'll inherit a residence of your own. In fact, you're sitting in it," Broad said, gesturing vaguely at the opulent room as if the mansion were a mere trinket. "But those are secondary. Those of us chosen for this path rarely find ourselves wanting for coin. We're simply providing you with a higher platform so you can climb faster. We remove the friction of the mundane world so your mind can stay in the clouds."
"There's no such thing as a free lunch, Professor," Albert said, his eyes narrowing. "If you're handing me a mansion and a library of secrets, what do I owe the estate in return?"
"The responsibilities are surprisingly light, though non-negotiable." Broad held up three fingers. "First: absolute secrecy. You do not discuss the nature of the inheritance or the true identity of the Wildsmiths with anyone—not even your family. Second: the stewardship of the next generation. You must act without bias to find and mentor the heirs that follow you. And finally: the contribution. Before you die, you must leave your own legacy—your unique knowledge—for the library. You must pay it forward."
"That's it?" Albert felt a jolt of disbelief. It sounded less like a burden and more like a winner's circle. "You're giving me everything I need to succeed, and all I have to do is be smart and tell the truth later?"
"Exactly. It's a self-sustaining system of excellence," Broad nodded. "Most people we approach find the deal impossible to refuse. There are no downsides, only an acceleration of one's own potential."
"Then tell me this: why did you take the deal?" Albert asked.
Broad's eyes twinkled. "Are you joking? Centuries of untainted, unfiltered magical theory? Even though a large portion of the ancient texts were lost during the various purges, what remains is more valuable than every vault in Gringotts combined. It's a gold mine, Albert."
"When do I get to see it?" Albert's interest was officially piqued. The skill panel was hungry for fresh 'nourishment,' and he was ready to turn this archive into his personal experience farm.
"Normally, you would have to visit Wildsmith Castle," Broad explained. "But that's a journey for an adult heir. To enter the castle, you must be of legal age and have officially taken the name. The wards are quite... particular about that."
"Wait, is the castle still a secret?" Albert asked, his brain already calculating the logistics. "How have the Goblins or the Ministry not stumbled over it? Is it a Fidelius Charm?"
Broad blinked, clearly impressed. "What makes you say that?"
"You said only those with the name can enter, and others will 'never find it.' That's the hallmark of a Secret-Keeper system," Albert analyzed. "If you're the Secret-Keeper and you only pass the information to the chosen heirs, the location remains untraceable. When a Secret-Keeper dies, every person they told becomes a secondary Secret-Keeper. With so few Wildsmiths, the secret stays tightly locked within a circle of high-IQ individuals who are too smart to talk. It's the perfect security system."
"Marvelous," Broad applauded. "You've nailed it. It is indeed the Fidelius, woven into the very foundations of the estate."
"One more thing," Albert said. "Ignatia Wildsmith. The inventor of Floo Powder. Was she the founder?"
"You've done your homework," Broad said. "The surname actually comes from her father, a man named Wildsmith who was a legendary smith of magical alloys. Ignatia formalized the lineage."
"I saw the name in Ravenclaw's secret room," Albert noted, connecting the threads. "But what about the descendants? I always assumed the Smith family were the direct line."
Broad scoffed, a rare display of elitism. "Lineage is a fickle thing, Albert. Look at the Four Founders of Hogwarts. Their bloodlines have been diluted into nothingness or lost to history. Many 'Old Families' today are just shadows of what they once were. We don't rely on the womb to produce an heir; we rely on the mind. Every Wildsmith is a genius because we choose them for being geniuses. Blood is the entry fee, but intellect is the membership."
"What happened to Rowena Smith, then?" Albert asked. "She seemed... broken. And I get the feeling you lot had something to do with it."
Broad's expression turned cold. "We voted. It was a collective decision that she was unsuitable. She had the talent, certainly, but her character was flawed. She was unstable. We train many people, Albert, but not all are fit to carry the mantle. We aren't in the business of handing out power to the reckless."
"And Isabelle's father?"
"Brai had half the talent Rowena had," Broad recalled with a sigh. "He was deemed unsuitable almost immediately. We tried to remain friendly, to keep him in the orbit, but he couldn't handle being 'second best.' It's a tragedy, but we don't lower our standards for the sake of sentiment."
Albert felt a twinge of pity for the Smiths, but he knew the world Broad operated in didn't have room for sympathy. It was a meritocracy of the highest—and harshest—order.
"Final question," Albert said. "When do I get my first look at this 'gold mine' of yours?"
Broad reached down and pulled a heavy wooden box from beside his chair. For a moment, Albert felt a strange sense of deja vu, a prickling in the back of his mind as if he'd seen this box in a dream.
"I took the liberty of bringing a sample," Broad said.
Albert opened the lid, and for a second, he thought his retinas were going to fry. The object inside wasn't paper or parchment. It was a book, but its pages were shimmering with a dull, heavy luster.
"Is this... gold?" Albert breathed, reaching out to touch the cool metal.
"A gold-silver alloy, mostly," Broad said, grinning at Albert's shock. "Can you imagine an entire library of these? Fireproof, waterproof, and designed to last until the end of time. The Castle is full of them."
"You people are disgustingly rich," Albert muttered, but he was already mesmerized. He flicked his wand, and the golden book hovered out of the box, settling on the reading stand.
"Money is a byproduct of knowledge," Broad said softly. "If you know how the world works, you never run out of gold."
Albert flipped to the first 'page.' The metal was thin as silk, etched with runes so precise they looked like they'd been grown rather than carved. He recognized the diagrams instantly—they were the foundational blueprints for two-way mirrors, but with layers of complexity he'd never even dreamed of.
On the back cover, he found a dedication etched in flowing script:
I have poured the sum of my life's labor into these plates. To those who follow: may you find the same joy in the craft that I found in the silence. — Brair Bulstrode.